


your eyes, unkind

by filthy_nebula



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV Second Person, Post-Season/Series 02, in this house we love angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 12:25:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19107067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthy_nebula/pseuds/filthy_nebula
Summary: You can’t make out much of your night beyond the muscle memory of your hands bringing alcohol to your lips, one shot after another.





	your eyes, unkind

You curl your fingers around the smooth surface of the shot glass, bringing it to your lips and throwing it back in one fluid motion.

Drinking is nothing like killing, you think. Killing is jagged and rough and choppy, a vulgar labour of love. Death by knife, by rope, by candlestick bludgeoned again and again against the soft tissue that protects the skull.

You think about the game Clue and wonder if you would have liked it, had you ever had anyone to play with.

You think a little more about death and decide that the smoothest death is a shooting because a gun makes everything simple. All you need to do is aim and pull the trigger.

You can’t remember if pulling a trigger had ever felt so wrong.

The burn of the vodka serves to distract you from that dangerous line of thinking. It pulls you back from the edge of a whirlpool of thoughts that threatens to suck you under its black current.

You bring the glass back down to the counter and eye the bartender for another. He nods in your direction before retrieving the bottle of vodka. He doesn’t bother to say anything as he pours you another shot. The inside of the club is far too loud and you’ve been there far too long to look for trivial conversation now.

With one hand you slide a few bills his way, with the other you bring the glass back up to your lips. You throw your head back as you pour the biting liquid down your throat, and you wonder at the movement of it. How, in another universe, you could be throwing your head back to laugh at some outrageously funny joke.

The thought of yourself laughing, given everything that’s happened, is somehow enough to put a ragged smile on your lips. It’s not long, however, before the rejection that’s pooled in your stomach like tar, coating you in its filth, rears its ugly head and reminds you exactly why you’re at this club and why you’re downing shots in the same way a carnivore tears at its meat.

You figure you’ve had enough to drink, for the time being, given the way you feel both small inside your body and yet entirely detached from it, and by how the strobe lights draw you to the dance floor like a moth to pulsating flames.

Your feet drag you to the centre of the club, and you brush past bodies that sway and jerk to the rhythm of music that seems to have somehow gotten fainter the more you had to drink. Nevertheless, some small part of you has managed to remain sober. It nags at you and tells you that you are being foolish. You are being weak. 

Maybe it isn’t sobriety, maybe that part of you is just cruel.

It tells you that you are simply repeating your antics from Amsterdam, searching for an escape with the methodology of a spoiled child. You know that nothing you do will truly fix you, fix this feeling, but that was never the goal in coming here anyways.

You had entered the club with half a mind to steal a few wallets, collecting funds for your impromptu vacation even though you have money stored away in case of times like these.

For some reason taking out that money no longer appeals to you.

For some reason you think that stealing would make you feel better.

Actually, you think that killing would make you feel better, and you briefly entertain the thought of luring a man outside and dispatching him right there in the alley, with nothing but your bare hands. Those thoughts turn to ash the moment you see her.

She is staring at you from across the dance floor, only when you blink she is gone.

You think maybe she was never there at all.

You begin to wonder how many drinks you’ve had and realize you can’t make out much of your night beyond the muscle memory of your hands bringing alcohol to your lips, one shot after another.

You shake your head and push further into the throng of moving bodies. It isn’t long before you come across the right woman; shorter than you, older than you, with soft curves that you imagine hide sharp edges, like the blade of a knife, or the sting of—

_“No.”_

You blink hard, before stepping into the woman’s space and brushing your chest against her back. Her hair is more wavy than curly, more brown than black, but in the darkness of the club and the daze of your intoxication, you find that you really don’t care. 

The woman feels you press close and tilts her head to the side to look at you. She makes some sort of judgement in the confines of her mind before smirking lightly and settling her body further into yours. You’re grateful for the approval, for the way it licks at your wounds and strokes at your ego and makes you almost, _almost_ forget.

You dance with her, moving your hands to her hips, and you think about how many times you’ve done this before. You’re well practised in the art of almost, and you think of how many women have trembled beneath you while, in your mind, you worshipped someone else.

Eventually the woman turns back around, and you hear English words form awkwardly around her Italian accent.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

It could be the alcohol. It could be the exhaustion that’s suddenly crept into your bones or the melancholic beast that has taken up residence in your heart. Whatever it is, it makes you pause a moment before you reply, simply,

“No.”

You don’t bother waiting to see her reaction, you just turn and walk away, sliding through bodies that will never know you were there, like smoke through fog.

You wonder if the act of rejecting a person should bring you joy. Certainly it used to be entertaining in some ways. You think of simple things, a woman asking for your photo, Konstantin asking you to behave, and how the act of rejecting them had been a sweet delight.

Now rejection seems like a wholly different thing. It belongs to the same family as the candlestick; a murder weapon in its own right.

You decide that you’ve had enough of this club. You entertain the thought of moving to another one, drinking more, drinking for the rest of the night, but the taste of bile in your throat forces you to adjust your course.

You only barely make it to the bathroom in time, and it makes for an ugly, ugly sight, the emptying of your stomach into the porcelain bowl beneath you. Your body continues to purge itself of the alcohol you’d so brazenly consumed only minutes ago. Drinking it had felt like a purge of its own, cleansing your mind of nagging thoughts that you just needed to shut up, shut up, _shut up_.

You’re not sure when they started, but at some point you notice tears falling down your face, painting your cheeks with their harsh, glistening honesty: you are not okay. 

You remember Amsterdam and how you’d almost killed a woman in that bathroom. You think a part of you may be dying here, too.

Once your stomach finally relents and you are empty, with your guts and your coping mechanisms painting the bowl, you begin to stand on shaky legs. The only thing left inside is the same tar pit of rejection you’d been trying to flush out with the alcohol. In reality, it has only seeped in deeper, and you wonder if it could fossilize under the weight of your melancholia.

You check your reflection in the mirror and it's a tear-strained, hollow face that returns your gaze. It infuriates you because you weren’t supposed to feel this way. Things certainly weren’t supposed to happen this way. Your indignation and intoxication begin to encourage each other, and you feel your hands clench around the edge of the bathroom counter in frustration. You decide it’s time to go.

When you step outside, the cool air of the night does little to soothe your simmering temper. You find that you are getting more and more annoyed with the simple act of existing, and, with the alcohol forcibly removed from your stomach, you are being made to endure it with no relief in sight.

Luckily for you, it isn’t long before you find a replacement for the booze. Something, possibly, even better. It comes in the form of a tall, broad, well-muscled man who catcalls you when you walk by. After looking around to make sure that the street is more or less empty, you turn to him and flash a smile, all teeth, like a shark. Like a villain.

And you lunge for his throat.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by three songs off the Drink Too Much EP by G Flip  
> Chapters are the titles of songs which I've had on repeat for days
> 
> Shoutout to nearlymidnight for the beta


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